


Letter To a Loved One

by Mama_Holmes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:55:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8280145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mama_Holmes/pseuds/Mama_Holmes
Summary: "Hermione suggested I'd express myself by writing, with parchment and quill and all. You're a witness to this small experiment."





	

My dearest love,

I don't even know how to start telling you all I want to say. Hermione suggested I'd express myself by writing, with parchment and quill and all. You're a witness to this small experiment.   
Do you know what I heard, once? True love happens when all the small intolerable traits of one's partner become a necessary part of one's life. Assuming that this is indeed the way to measure love, I have a thousand examples that can prove that our love is the strongest of them all.   
Your cynicism is one of them; your spiteful, malignant comments, the fact that you and your stupid ego can't lose an argument.  
You're quite aggressive, too; that's another example. Do you know how your stupid little games drive me nuts? You're dragging me in with your words, just like I was caught in rope, and then you start pulling. How can I resist you? You know I can't, and you like taking advantage of this, you bastard. You pull me in, get me within touching distance, so close that I can feel your warm breath on my skin – and then it’s over. You smile your victorious smile (another thing I hate and love about you) – and let go of the rope. What about me, then? I fall and get hurt, but you don't care.  
You are a wonderful apathy, Prince Charming on a broomstick (no, wait a minute, bad metaphor. I meant a broomstick from those muggle fairytales, not like your wonderful Nimbus 2001. Turns out I'm not that good in this whole 'written expression' thing after all. Thanks, Hermione).  
My head is spinning when I think about you. It's spinning in the actual, literal sense of the word. Something in those eyes of yours just makes me stop breathing altogether. You're rather dangerous, on second thought, are you aware of that?  
Sometimes I wonder what's going on in this pretty little head of yours, if you go crazy when you think of me, too. I'd like to think that you do. Do I ever pass through your thoughts? Do I ever just pause there, in the center of the brain, just linger for a bit and say hello? Right under this single curl in this blond hair of yours, the one I found on accident when I ran my fingers through this rich goldmine? Do I smile, in your head? Am I yours, like I am in the real world?  
Are you lost in me the way I am lost in you, Draco? I was taken captive ages ago, you know. My heart isn't on my command anymore, because it all belongs to you. Is this what makes the total system failures I experience every time you're far away?

You're a storming ocean, it's clear even just by looking at your face.   
It's not only your sand hair and storm eyes, I'm not talking about those. You look a bit threatening on first glance, do you know that? Your face is a bit sharp and angular, although your jaw line is soft and your nose is delicate, as expected from a worthy royal heir. You'll always be worthy, Draco.   
You'd probably love to hear that I still find you threatening. Do not be mistaken, darling, I am not scared of you, not even one bit.   
You're a bit changeable, too, which is another point of similarity to the ocean. One soft look from you can make all the clouds go far far away, because you are my sun; my sun and my storming ocean.  
Know what else, Draco? I think I'm drowning in you, but that's alright. You're always there to save me. (And even if you wouldn't be, I'm still breathing fine. Frankly, it's quite pleasant, drowning in you.)  
You're raving mad, has anyone told you that? But that's alright. I'm not completely sane, either.

You've completely changed my definition of endless love. I love you, Draco, all of you. I love the scars you've gathered throughout the years; the ones I have accidentally created myself, in our sixth year (I'm still mourning this incident in every moment of my life), even your tattoo, your death eater symbol. I know you've been trying to remove it, Draco. Did you honestly believe I wouldn't notice the red, irritated skin on your forearm, wouldn't sense the way you slightly tensed when I touched it that evening?  
I know you. I know all your perfect flaws. Your shoulders are always a bit hutched, as if you're carrying the weight of the whole planet. Your hair has a single white stripe. You don't bother colouring over it, because the white it so close to your natural platinum colour that it's unnoticeable. Only I get close enough to see your white stripe, Draco, and I love it. I really do.  
When we're together, I give you the purest, most whole form of myself which I am capable of being. No masks, no constipations. I even remove the regular spell from my scar, the one that reduces the staring looks I get every day. You get me, all of me, and I'd love to get all of you in return. You're still a bit afraid of getting vulnerable. Don't be afraid of me, my love. I would never do anything to harm you.  
I think that my life has begun when I first realized I loved you. My life, as Harry Potter, not as the Boy Who Lived. I remember your anger when I told you about the plan Dumbledore had for me, how he grew me into a weapon. I still remember the lightning of anger that flashed in your eyes, and then the storm abated again when I laughed and kissed you. I love those moments, when your storm abates. I love knowing that I am the one who made my sun reappear through the clouds. 

Don’t be afraid to cry in front of me, alright, my dear? I've told you this before, and I'd tell you this a thousand more times – your tears are just one beautiful part of you.   
Believe me, Draco; I know that you have every right to cry. Life has been cruel to you in the past years. I'll always be around to kiss your tears away.  
I was already able to let this barrier go in front of you, but you have always had a harder time placing your trust. That's how a sodding Malfoy should behave, right? I suppose you've been told that tears are feminine. Believe me, Draco, your tears only prove how much courage and strength you've had. How are those unmanly traits to have?  
You're my biggest weakness, but also the brightest point of strength. Have you ever wondered why my patronus shines brighter ever since I met you?   
You're like pouring rain to me, swirling and dizzying and hitting me hard on the face, and then stroking with light touches of a drizzle. You're cold as ice and hot as a flame, rough as broken glass and soft like Crookshanks' fur was once, on his better days. Your touch always burns and freezes and scratches and stings and heals and swirls and sweeps and takes my breath away and makes me dizzy until I lose my senses.   
And when my heart beats at accelerated rate, I swear it beats to the rhythm of the syllables of Dra-co, Dra-co, Dra-co. 

Just give me all of you, my love. I promise to keep your soul whole, to protect its well kept parts as well as those that were left wide open. I'd place only the gentlest on touches on it, unless you'd ask me to treat it otherwise. I'd make sure not to wound it any more, and do my best to heal the wounds and cuts that already exist in it. They won't ever be healed completely, I know that; but it won't hurt trying.  
There are wounds that are impossible to heal, but even those can be in an improved state. I know that because you've helped to improve some of my deeper wounds, the ones I have lost all hope about. Those were cuts and burns and bruises that have now faded into scars, like the one from our fifth year, when I was forced to swear that I'd never tell lies. Like my lightning scar. They're still there, and always will be, but they don't hurt anymore.   
And you know what, Draco? It's all worth it when your routine of planting soft kisses on every scar gets longer.

I swear that you're making me drown. Draco.   
Would you think I'm insane if I would never ask for a rope to pull myself out with?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave feedback, it's always appreciated!  
> (p.s. I listened to All Of Me by John Legend while writing this piece. Braely noticable, right? -kidding-)


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